


Like Lead Into The Sea

by Carrigan



Series: yet we move forward, still [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks, Therapy, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 03:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrigan/pseuds/Carrigan
Summary: There’s hurt there, in Liam’s eyes. Zayn can see it in the way his eyes get shiny and his brow furrows. But the whole reason they’re in this mess is because Zayn has spent the last seven years prioritizing Liam’s pain and Liam’s feelings and Liam’s wants and Liam’s needs ahead of everything else.Or, Zayn agrees to pretend he and Liam are still together while they go on holiday with Harry, Niall, and Louis. Things do not go as planned.





	Like Lead Into The Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexenglish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/gifts).



> _My dear remember this:_   
>  _You’re strong._   
>  _You’re important._   
>  _You’re loved._   
>  _You can make it._

“I’m glad we were able to meet again before your trip.”

Zayn nods, staring down at his lap and picking at a loose thread in his jeans. Lately he’d been working on his use of non-verbal communication as a crutch, and remembering that expressing himself involves both his body and his words. But right now he doesn’t get pressed for verbal responses or eye contact. 

“Can you tell me how you’ve been preparing? Last week we discussed some of the tools you’ve been working on, and how you can use them when you’re confronted with tough situations. Which techniques do you think might benefit you the most?”

“Just, like...” Zayn’s voice sounds rough in his own ears, and he clears his throat. “Like, standing up for myself, and telling people when I feel uncomfortable.” He presses his pinkie nail into the tiny hole of his jeans, and tugs at the lengthening loose thread again when his finger doesn’t fit.

There’s an empty silence for a few beats as she waits to see whether or not he’ll elaborate. He doesn’t, and Zayn listens to the soft scritch of her pen as she notes something in her journal before moving on.

“And what did you pack? What are you planning on bringing with you?”

Zayn frowns, looks up at her before darting his eyes off to a point just beyond her left ear. There’s a convenient painting of a forest scene on the far wall, an original she’d told him, and he squints like he’s trying to make out the painter’s signature.

He thinks he should be used to the way she presents her questions by now. At first it’d felt like tiptoeing through a minefield, the way Eve peers down at him through her horn-rimmed glasses. Zayn would try and think of the right answers, the ones that made him seem like less of a mess, until he realized that there were no right answers.

She’s got her hair down today, long and dark against her pale skin and white dress, and he clears his throat again. Eve waits expectantly, gold pen poised in her hand, as he tries to figure out if she actually cares about what he’d packed in his luggage or whether this question is leading somewhere else. 

“Mostly clothes. We’re going for almost two weeks, and everyone’s put together this huge itinerary of stuff. I had to buy cleats, ‘cause Niall said I won’t be let on the course with Versace boots on.” 

Eve waits until he’s finished talking then starts jotting down her notes. Zayn had told her, at her own insistence of mutual honesty, that he didn’t like it when she wrote while he was talking. It felt too much like an interview, like she was listening to only the bits and pieces she needed to form her next question, and throwing the rest of his words away. Eve had just nodded, thanked him for telling her, and asked if it would be okay to write after he was finished speaking. He’d agreed, and that’s what she’s done since.

“You’ve mentioned before that you don’t like golf. Have you developed a sudden fondness for the sport?” There’s a small smile on Eve’s lips, and she quirks her eyebrow. Her hands are folded in her lap, notebook closed now and pen capped, and she manages to catch his eyes this time.

“Nah,” Zayn says, shaking his head. He drops his gaze again, picking more at the hole in his jeans. “But Haz and Niall said I could come along, and I know they want me to go, so I figured I’d let them have a laugh at my shitty stance or whatever.” He chuckles, and expects her to humor him with a chuckle in response. She plays along sometimes, when it helps him to feel comfortable, but she doesn’t today.

“The itinerary that the five of you put together as a group,” Eve says, opening her notebook again and uncapping her pen. Zayn thinks that she’s noticed that he likes having the visual distraction of her repetitive actions, but she hasn’t said anything. She jots something down before continuing, “What did you add to the list of activities?”

Zayn blinks, watches her hand as she waggles the pen between her fingers. He thinks, tries to come up with something. The tassel on the the end of her journal sways when she uncrosses and then recrosses her legs, and he starts to feel nervous.

“I dunno, just like, hangouts and stuff? Like, chilling and drinking. Just lads’ stuff, I guess.” Eve’s pen scritches along the page, and for the first time in a while he wonders what she’s writing about him.

“And what are you most excited about for this trip? What are you most looking forward to?” Eve leans back in her armchair, and she catches his eyes again. Zayn throat almost closes up when he looks at her this time, trying to clamp down and prevent any lies from escaping. That was the main thing she’d asked for, her one request from him, that he try and be honest to the best of his ability.

Zayn’s throat clicks, and he thinks detachedly as his eyes start to mist up that it won’t be the first time she sees him cry.

“Just like,” he starts, but his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat again to stall for time. “Seeing everyone again, it’ll be nice, I think.” Zayn rubs at his eyes, thinks of faking a cough to try and play it off as allergies, but ends up not bothering.

“And Liam? Have you had contact with him regarding anything besides the trip?”

Zayn shudders in a long breath and shakes his head, looking up at the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. He’s become somewhat of an expert at willing tears away with sheer force, but his skills are failing him today.

“Are you excited to see him?”

Zayn scoffs, and it’s supposed to sound like a petulant ‘Ugh, as if I’d ever want to  _ really _ hang out with my ex’, but comes out a bit more pathetic. It’s a sad little death rattle, which Zayn figures is probably a more accurate depiction of their relationship anyway.

“Zayn?” She says his name in that prodding, expectant way that he doesn’t get very often anymore. Lately he’s been cooperative and receptive to her questions, but early on when his monosyllabic responses must have been borderline infuriating for her, she’d used this voice. “Are you excited to see Liam as well?”

Zayn rubs at his face, the skin overheated under his fingers, and he braces himself. Zayn doesn’t want to say it out loud, doesn’t even want to think it. It must be some awful taboo or betrayal, like he’s breaking the sacred commitment they’ve made to each other, or whatever pretentious shit Liam says when he gets upset.

“No, I’m not excited to see him, and no, I don’t want to see him.” 

Contrary to popular belief, saying difficult things during therapy isn’t very freeing at all. Eve had asked him to explain it once, how it made him feel to admit difficult truths to himself. Why is it easier for him to live in lies even when it hurts him, instead of moving forward with the truth?

He told her to imagine herself tied to a really big balloon. Every lie makes the balloon bigger, and makes you float higher and higher. There’s nowhere to go but up, and the work is out of your hands. All you have to do is drift contentedly and let yourself be strung along by the lies. 

And then you float into the sun and burn to death.

On the other hand, admitting the truth to yourself is like putting a handful of lead inside the balloon. You can survive on lies for a really long time, but the truth will have you sinking like a dead weight in hardly any time at all.

Eve pointed out that in both of those scenarios he’s doomed for failure. Whether he sinks, or keeps floating until he burns, they’re both bad endings. When she asked him how he thought one might go about finding a good ending to this scenario, especially if it was supposed to be a direct reflection of his own life, Zayn just shrugged. He hadn’t really considered there could even be a good ending. 

Then, Eve had just nodded and written another note. But now she seems determined to get more answers out of him.

“Can you put into words why you’ve started feeling this way?” But she already knows why. Zayn knows she’s not stupid. She’s aware of just about every aspect of his relationship with Liam, and could probably guess on her own. But apparently verbalizing his feelings is good for him in the long run, so he says it anyway.

“I feel bad around him, sometimes. I can tell when he’s not happy, and it’s like, no matter what I do it’s not right. Or I’m not doing enough - but I’m doing  _ everything _ . I’m giving him  _ everything _ , and I haven’t fucking got anything else to give him! The only reason I’m going on this stupid fucking trip is ‘cause everyone else is so excited, and I don’t want to let them down. People always callin’ me a fucking flake, and I don’t want them disappointed in me, but sometimes -” 

Zayn presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, blocking out the light of the room. The hum of the air conditioner is too loud in his ears, and the ambient light filtering in through the curtains is too bright, and his head hurts, and his stomach is roiling, and he just wants to lay down.

“Sometimes,” he continues rubbing at his eyes to trying and east the tension in his skull, “I think if I have to spend spend a single minute with him I’ll just scream.”

Zayn’s fingers scrub at his face, frustration welling up inside of his chest as he tries to find the words. Eve always tells him to take his time, and feel what he means before he says what he means. Some days it makes sense, and other days it still sounds like bullshit. Today it’s like a fish hook, yanking all the words out of him one by one.

“And he acts so fucking self-righteous,” Zayn says, pushing his hands back to tug at his hair before remembering that he cut it. He presses his face into the crooks of his elbows and closing himself in. It’s better like this, when he’s less exposed. “Like, oh, we’re just on a break. ‘Don’t worry, Zayn. You’ll come to your senses, Zayn. You’ll come running back after seeing how wrong you were, Zayn.’ Like he’s doing  _ me _ a fucking favor ‘cause he doesn’t wanna tell anyone we broke up. But I’m so -”

Zayn cuts himself off again, dropping his face into his hands and letting his head fall between his knees. The energy from before is gone just that quickly, like a tornado blustering through town before dissipating, leaving behind snapped planks and upturned trees.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he mutters, voice muffled and quiet. “I’m tired of being the one to keep running back. If I’m not what he wants,” Zayn says, lifting his head and staring into Eve’s eyes, voice imploring as he looks to her for answers that she doesn’t have, “Then why can’t he just fucking let me go? If I can’t be the person he’s looking for, why does he make me keep trying?”

Zayn sits back against the chair and drops his eyes, head bowed again as he goes back to pulling at the loose string in his jeans. 

“What if I can’t change enough? What if it’s just, like,  _ never _ enough?” He’s asking her, honestly, but she doesn’t say anything. Eve waits to see if there’s anything else he’s going to say, before humming quietly. She recaps her pens and closes her notebook, peering at him silently.

“I’d like to thank you for sharing that with me, Zayn. I know it’s difficult for you to admit those things out loud, but I’m proud of you for recognizing and acknowledging the troubling feelings you’re having, regarding Liam and the trip as well.”

She takes off her glasses, shaking her hair out so it fans across her shoulders, and folds her hands in her lap. This is what Zayn internally refers to as Eve’s “Therapizing Mode.” When she’s preparing to deconstruct everything he’s just verbally regurgitated to her, and show him an entirely new frame of reference. A long soliloquy, elegant and piercing, to cut straight into him.

“You are enough,” she says. “Unequivocally and indisputably. You are not a fraction, nor a portion, nor a partial piece. You are already whole. You are already complete. You are not broken, and you do not need fixing. You are not required to mold yourself into anyone’s ideal. Your existence is not predicated on the desires of any human being. You do not exist for any reason except your own happiness and self-purpose. You are, and always have been, enough.”

Eve smiles, tilting her head to one side, and Zayn is once again transfixed by the motion of her hair. The soft light shines over her shoulder through the curtain, and the air in the room tastes glittery and bright when he breathes it in. It fills up his chest, a cool breeze with the smell of sun and ozone, expanding inside him until he’s full up and drunk on it.

“No bullshit,” she says, shrugging one pale shoulder, and that’s the end of it. She puts her glasses back on, uncaps her pen, and opens her notebook to write another note.

“Tell me more about your cleats,” Eve says. “Did Niall help you pick them out? How has your relationship with him been, lately?”

Zayn swallows roughly, feeling hazy and slightly off-kilter, but senses the switch to a lighter topic and runs with it.

Later when they’re concluding the session, she stops him before he can jump out of his seat and spring out of her front door like he usually does.

“I have a bit of a project for you,” Eve says, standing and crossing the room so she can grab a notebook and pen from a cabinet drawer. She hands it to him and continues, “I would like you to write down at least one instance every day when you felt uncomfortable. Whether it was a compromise you didn’t want to make, or a situation that you didn’t want to be in - write it down, along with why it made you feel that way.”

Zayn nods and takes it without comment, and she nods in return then walks him to the front door. Zayn sometimes forgets how tall she is until they’re standing in a doorway and she’s towering over him. Eve looks down at him through her glasses, and with her modest beige heels on she’s got at least six inches on him. He settles for looking down at the floor instead of having to crane his neck up at her.

“One last thing before you go?” There’s a question in her voice, which surprises him. Eve doesn’t  _ really _ ask questions, not in the way other people do. She gives statements that she wants you to answer. But now there’s hesitation in her voice, like there’s an open space for rejection.

“I just wanted to remind you that you have my emergency contact number, if you ever have need for it. You are willingly walking into an experience that potentially could be very stressful. Whether you’re in my office or not, I am here to help guide you. Please call if you ever need to reach me.”

Eve shakes her hair out again, and her shoulders are squared as if she was bracing herself. It’s hard to imagine a person like Eve ever feeling uncertain about something, so Zayn just nods again, and pulls his phone from his back pocket. He waves it in the air, indicating awkwardly that he’s got her number saved, and she smiles at him.

They finally make it to her front door and she sees him off, closing the door behind him as he leaves her secluded LA location. When he exits, his bodyguard is waiting dutifully. Zayn climbs into the backseat and they greet each other, but they’re both mutually light on the small talk. It’s not a personal slight to either of them, but rather an understanding that Zayn needs some “quiet time.”

Zayn turns his phone back on, always having it off during sessions, and unsurprisingly there are a few missed messages. There’s one from management about a last minute appearance, a few in the groupchat about updates to the itinerary, and one text message from Liam.

He responds to all the other messages first. A  _ “My flight is @ 9p. Can be @ show from 5-7p” _ to management, and a  _ “Aha! Sick! Cant wait!!” _ to the groupchat.

He opens Liam’s message last.

_ “Picked up ur luggage from the house. Didnt want u 2 forget it. Hav ur passport & boarding pass too. Will meet u @ airport @ 8? Text me if u need anything” _

Zayn has a sudden urge to toss his phone out of the window of the moving SUV. He can feel a tension headache settling behind his eyes, and he really wants to take a nap.

Zayn replies with a short  _ “Ok” _ , knowing Liam will assume he’s changed his mind about going if he’s doesn’t respond.

The sky is blue and cloudless as LA refuses to mesh with the rest of the Northern Hemisphere and fall into a seasonal January winter. His phone buzzes again with another message in the groupchat, this time with Harry asking about all of their preferred helmet colors. 

Zayn sends back a  _ “Black and red (: xx” _ and shoves his phone back into his pocket.

He leans his head against the window as the SUV is navigated through the heavy LA traffic, and closes his eyes. He imagines he’s tied to a really big balloon, drifting slowly. The water beneath him is far away, and the sun is shining warm and bright. He’s not falling.

1.

Zayn hates flying. He always has, and a part of him always will. The thought of sitting in a metal tube all day while it shuttles him through the air nine kilometers up in the sky - needless to say it grates at him.

But sitting next to Harry while he chatters away about YSL and Versace and Gucci is almost enough to distract him. The flying isn’t the only thing that has his stomach flipping and turning in knots, but it’s the only reason he’ll mention out loud right now.

Harry’s story about ripping a pair of his custom Tom Ford trousers veers off into an explanation of how they’d come to acquire the private plane they’re currently traveling in. Some ultra-rich friend or another, who knew a tailor, who knew a bartender, who - Zayn loses track halfway through the name-dropping, but he still nods along dutifully.

Niall’s signature laugh spikes up from the back of the plane, and Zayn has a sudden and instinctive desire to turn around and see what’s so funny. He knows logically that Liam and Niall are probably just talking about FIFA or something equally innocuous, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to know for sure.

He fights it, focuses on Harry’s slow and rambling story that’s taken about seven turns since it started. Zayn has stuck mostly by Harry’s side the entire day, during check-in and boarding, but if either Harry or Niall had noticed they hadn’t said anything. It was rare nowadays for them to all be in the same place at one time, and excitement most likely overtook any sharp-eyed bandmates looking for the cracks in their relationship.

Zayn knows they do it. And yeah, part of the reason he’d agreed to hold off until after the Lads’ Getaway to tell the world about his and Liam’s breakup is because he doesn’t want to prove them right. 

Zayn had expected shovel talks, warnings about breaking Liam’s heart, threats to treat him right, pleas to not fuck it up that were only half-joking - and those had happened. Even Liam had gotten a few. All from Louis, but it still counted. He’d been quietly endeared on behalf of Louis, his insides tingling and laughter bubbling up at the idea that Louis was still a vociferous defender of Zayn’s virtue, unless Louis himself was the one sullying it.

What he hadn’t expected, though, was the check ups. 

There were the drop-bys, and the groupchats, and the phone calls, and the peering eyes, all melding together into one overbearing and relentless Former Boybander Watchdog Group. Zayn hadn’t recognized it at first. He’d naively thought Harry and Niall were just excited to have all five of them on talking terms again.

But there’s only so many times someone can ask you “And how are you and Liam doing? You guys good?” in so many ways before you start to feel like a child under the vigilant eye of an guardian that has absolutely no faith in you.

Zayn tries not to take it personally. He’s never confronted any of them about their over-attentiveness, can only assume their intentions are altruistic, and is honestly basing most of his knowledge off of assumptions. But there’s something particularly grating about a person waiting around in the rafters for you to fuck up, popcorn and wine in hand, ready to jeer when you inevitably drop the ball.

So here Zayn sits, on a seventeen hour flight to New Zealand with his ex who he pretends is still his fiance, and two bandmates who are secretly trying to pull the masks off him and Liam like they’re Scooby Doo villains.

Not for the first time today, Zayn wishes that Louis were here. Deep down somewhere, Zayn knows that he’s being dramatic. Louis’d had to take a later flight with Freddie, citing the four of them as “way too rambunctious for his little lad”. It’s not like he’s dead, or won’t be hopping on a flight of his own in just a few hours.

But as Harry details the new additions to his shoe collection, Zayn longs for the manic yet familiar buzz of Louis’ presence. It’s nothing against Harry, really, but there’s only so much Zayn can talk about shoes in one sitting - and that’s coming from someone who helped to design a fucking shoe collection.

It takes a while, almost four hours into the flight, before Zayn can feel himself start to settle in. Despite the exhaustion that had been thrumming through him all day, he’d been wired with what he assumed was nervousness. It sped through his veins and made him jittery, jumping at the sound of Liam’s voice and steadfastly not looking any time he walked past Zayn.

Harry is in the middle of debating the merits of velvet versus suede, but Zayn can tell even he’s starting to flag now. He’s sipped his way through two flutes of champagne and a finger of whiskey, and before long he’s conking out, head tipped back as he snores lightly.

Zayn can’t help but stare fondly for a little while, instantly transported back to an easier and simpler time when the only way he could sleep at night was if he was in the same bed being lulled to sleep by Haz’s snoring. Harry’s chair is reclined as far back as it will go, and he’s completely horizontal, curled in on himself and almost in a fetal position.

Zayn’s getting up before he even realizes he’s moved, in search of a blanket or something to cover Harry with. The stewardess must guess his motives pretty quickly, because he’s only fumbling through cabinets for a few moments before she’s handing him a few bundled blankets. Zayn thanks her, only slightly embarrassed, and throws one of the blankets over Harry.

The plane is mostly quiet now. All of them have been awake for sixteen hours or more by this point, and though Zayn is too wary to hazard a look he assumes everyone else besides the flight crew is sleeping. He settles back in his seat, reclining it and tugging the blanket around himself and preparing to try and sleep for the rest of the flight, when he hears his name called.

A cooler, more in-control person would have nonchalantly turned around. But as it is, Zayn’s head whips back and he almost breaks his neck.

It’s Liam, beckoning him to the other side of the plane where he’s moved away from Niall, who’s got his headphones on and his head tilted back against the headrest of the seat. Niall’s eyes are closed as he taps out a silent beat on his thigh, and Zayn has a sad realization that it’s the first time he’s really looked at him for more than a quick second today. Niall had paired off with Liam, and since Zayn was keeping away from Liam that meant he’d inadvertently kept away from Niall too.

There’s a sickly resentment rolling in his belly when he looks at Liam now. Zayn was doing this to keep them all happy, trying his best to keep their fractured little group together, but it’s proving harder and harder when he’s constantly tiptoeing away from or around Liam.

Zayn has been successful in avoiding him thus far, besides a greeting in the airport to keep up appearances, and he’s not eager to break that streak. He gestures to his blanket, trying to indicate that he’s about to go to sleep, but Liam either doesn’t understand or just pretends not to. Either way, he’s beckoning Zayn over again, arm outstretched as he motions for Zayn to come sit with him.

Zayn looks around the cabin of the plane, but there’s no one paying attention to them. Niall’s in his own little music world, Harry’s sleeping soundly, and the flight crew have retreated to the staff quarters for the night. There’s no one to latch onto for an excuse to get out of this interaction, but there’s also no one to tell on him or scold him if he just flips Liam off and turns over to fall asleep.

There’s expectancy in Liam’s eyes, which is both relentlessly endearing and unendingly infuriating. Like Zayn will leave his comfy seat, give up some of his much needed rest, and go over and do something he  _ really doesn’t want to do _ just because Liam’s asks.

As he wraps the blanket around himself and trudges over to a seat next to Liam, Zayn is reminded once again how much he hates it when Liam is right.

Liam tracks Zayn with his eyes, watches him flop down into the seat and try futilely to get comfortable. His hand twitches like he wants to reach out, and Zayn almost recoils at the thought. It’s draining, having Liam’s hands and eyes and attention on him. Liam constantly wants to dig inside and have a peek at all of Zayn’s inner workings, and Zayn’s forced to find new ways to keep him out.

It’s not like Zayn doesn’t know it’s wrong and counterproductive to everything they said they’d work towards. But excuse the hell out of him for not wanting to have every nuance about him, down to an exact mapping of his DNA, laid out for Liam to examine, critique, and make corrections to. 

Zayn’s hardly been sat down for a minute, but his thoughts are already working him into a frenzy. He’s a little dizzy with how fast his heart is pounding, and he desperately just wants to sleep for the next thirteen hours.

“We didn’t get to catch up earlier,” Liam says, voice low so as to not to disturb Harry and Niall, or to “foster intimacy”. Liam has recently become addicted to self-help books, and has decided that smothering their already half-dead relationship in bullshit life hacks and couples’ tips is the best course of action. 

Even now, Zayn can remember the revulsion he’d felt at finding one of the books with a marked and highlighted section titled “How To Communicate with an Uncommunicative Partner.” In the moment he’d been embarrassed, just pretended he hadn’t seen it and pushed the thought away.

But right now as he stares at Liam, who’d probably written down a whole speech on flashcards and had it memorized, Zayn really wishes he had the book now. If only so he could throw it at Liam’s face, or at the very least explain the irony of hiding a book about communication in the bottom drawer of your nightstand.

Zayn is only mildly surprised at the visceral feelings Liam still manages to pull out of him, but he squirms in his seat nonetheless. He wonders if Liam can see the bitterness in his face, or if the obviousness of his discomfort is only in his imagination.

Liam either doesn’t notice it or outright ignores it, because after a sufficiently awkward silence he continues on when Zayn shows he has no plans on furthering the conversation.

“How have you been?” Liam asks, keeping his eyes focused and wide and his face open, a small smile on his face and his palms flat on his thighs. Zayn had read about this in another one of Liam’s books. A tactic of making yourself seem unintimidating and inviting, so that your partner would be more willing to open up and share with you.

Zayn thinks it makes him look like a robot. Like Zayn’s words and actions are just data sets corresponding to a series of ones and zeroes that Liam computes. A clinical and self-help approved response, proven by housewives across the country to calm any pig-headed husband.

Zayn pulls his blanket up over the bottom half of his face, until just his nose and eyes are visible. It’s better like this, when he’s less exposed. When Liam can’t try to dissect his every breath and pick apart every twitch and fidget. It’s better when Liam can’t see inside of Zayn, and bookmark all the parts to fix.

“I’m fine,” Zayn says, words muffled through the blanket. He doesn’t elaborate, simply doesn’t want to be talking at all, but Liam still nods and widens his smile.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” Liam continues, launching into the speech Zayn knew he had prepared. “I really think it’s gonna be great to get away from the city for a while and just relax. No work, no stress. Just the lads and Baby Tommo.”

He reaches his hand out and places it on Zayn’s knee. Zayn imagines he can feel Liam’s palm burning through his jeans and scorching his skin, leaving him with the sensation of a million tiny lightning bolts digging into the muscle of his thigh.

“I want the two of us to have some time together too,” Liam says, and Zayn kind of hates how earnest he is. “No pressure, just getting back to our roots. Finding us again.” Liam’s eyes drop, and Zayn’s glad his hands are tucked under the blanket, because he can tell if they weren’t that Liam would be reaching for one. “I want to fix us, Zayn. I want us to get back to normal.”

_ That’s the problem _ , Zayn thinks blithely, staring into Liam’s serious eyes.  _ There’s no normal for us to go back to. _

During these speeches Liam always has an air about him like he’s trying to impress the importance of his words upon Zayn. Like he wants to make him really understand.

Zayn doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Zayn nods, shifting his knee only slightly but with the obvious intent of dislodging Liam’s hand. Liam’s hand stutters as he tries to decide whether it was accident, and whether or not he should try and place his hand back on Zayn’s leg.

Zayn makes the choice for him by standing up and taking his blanket with him. He’d made it very clear to Liam that this trip was neither the time nor the place for the reconciliation. If there was ever going to be one at all.

Instead of looking up at Zayn, Liam looks off to the side. He sniffs loudly and wipes his hand roughly over his mouth, staring out of the window nearest him. There’s another bit of irony that Zayn always gets a sour enjoyment out of. How Liam constantly scolds Zayn for not being open enough, but can’t stand to show even a second of weakness.

_ Whatever. _ Zayn’s thoughts are spiteful as he backs away a few steps while Liam turns away from him completely and looks out of his window.  _ At least we don’t have to pretend around each other anymore. _

Zayn goes back to his seat and flops down, trying to resettle his nerves and get comfortable enough to sleep. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, thumping through his veins and making him feel light-headed. Even sitting down he feels woozy, like his whole equilibrium has been twisted and knotted up just from a short conversation with Liam.

Zayn wonders, not for the first time, if Liam ever gets tired of watching him walk away. 

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to use some of the breathing exercises Eve had taught him to calm himself back down. But he can already tell that the sleepiness he’d felt not ten minutes ago has been replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. The kind that claws its way into you, keeping you awake and steeped in angst and worries.

Zayn sighs, and forces his body to lie still. He’ll be damned if he lets Liam know he’s still awake and opens the door open for another conversation. It’s a new experience, hiding and ducking from Liam, pretending to be asleep to avoid him, dodging his calls, ignoring his pleas for reconciliation. 

Even when they didn’t talk for almost four months after Zayn left the band, the divide between them was mutual. Or at the very least it was Liam not returning Zayn’s calls. This is the first time Zayn’s personally ever really thought they maybe they aren’t supposed to end up together. That they aren’t soulmates, or two halves of a whole, or meant to be, or anything.

They’re just two kids who found their way into each others’ beds, and created a fucked up mess of “love” and “relationships” that they can’t find their way out of.

Frustrated tears well in Zayn’s eyes, but he pushes them back. He’s not here to think about Liam. He’s not  _ here _ for Liam. He’s here for the lads, his best friends, who he refuses to let down. Liam can go to hell. Once this is over they’ll go their separate ways, and finally end their farce of a relationship.

Liam can live his life knowing that he doesn’t have to spend every second of his days reforming Zayn into an acceptable fiance.

Zayn closes his eyes, and imagines he’s floating with his balloon. The air is warm around him as the sun beams down and prickles his skin with heat. There’s a breeze in the air pushing him forward, and he doesn’t even glance at the water below. He’s not falling.

2.

“You said there’d be two beds.”

Liam sighs, a long-suffering lament that’s half chastising and half exhaustion from having to explain things to Zayn over and over again. That’s all it takes to raise Zayn’s hackles these days. Just like that his guard is up, ready to bat away whatever bullshit Liam’s preparing to toss at him.

“Zayn,” Liam starts, in that paternal, placating tone that makes Zayn feel like a disobedient child, “We’re never going to work through our issues if…” Liam pauses, licks his lips as he cuts off whatever he was about to say, and chooses his words more carefully. “If we keep staying separate like this.”

The underlying “if you keep running away” is unspoken but still clear.

“We’re a couple,” Liam continues, taking a few steps toward Zayn, “We’re engaged. We’re adults. We share a bed, Zayn.” There’s finality in his tone, as if he’s the only one making sense here and he’s just waiting for Zayn to catch up.

“We’re not a couple. And we’re not engaged.” It’s mostly stubbornness that has Zayn crossing his arms, standing his ground on this and pushing back at Liam’s infuriatingly calm voice. “And what if I don’t want to share a bed with you? What then?”

Zayn really should be marching down to the hotel lobby and booking his own room, separate from Liam and his expectations and lack of fundamental boundaries. But instead he’s standing here fuming as Liam tries to convince him that he’s overreacting. 

Liam smiles, and Zayn wants to tell him to wipe that smug smirk off his face. But he’s jetlagged, and his head hurts, and if he says what he’s actually feeling out loud he’s afraid he might never stop yelling.

“I know you want to share a bed with me,” Liam says, taking another few steps towards Zayn, “Because I know you have to miss me as much as I miss you. You can try to hide it all you want, but I know you, Zayn.” They’re staring at each other, and it’s one of the longest and closest bouts of interaction they’ve had in weeks - even closer than on the plane.

Liam reaches his hand out and cups Zayn’s jaw, and Zayn freezes. Liam’s eyes focus in on his lips, but it’s not until he starts leaning in that Zayn regains his senses. He turns his head, pushing Liam’s hand away from his face after the kiss lands on the side of Zayn’s head.

Liam’s other hand comes up to hold Zayn’s face, turning his head so Zayn’s forced to look at him. There’s hurt there, in Liam’s eyes. Zayn can see it in the way his eyes get shiny and his brow furrows. But the whole reason they’re in this mess is because Zayn has spent the last seven years prioritizing Liam’s pain and Liam’s feelings and Liam’s wants and Liam’s needs ahead of everything else.

So Zayn forces himself to not feel guilty at Liam’s kicked puppy face when Zayn pushes Liam back. Liam’s shoulders used to be one of the most familiar places Zayn could put his hands, and now it’s just the first place he could grab to push Liam away.

“Stop doing that,” Liam says, frown on his face and voice high and cracking as he stares at Zayn. “Stop flinching away from me like I’m some hideous monster you can’t stand to look at or touch.”

He grabs at one of Zayn’s hand to try and pull him closer again, and Zayn’s first instinct is to try and yank it back. He has the tiniest and briefest bubble of panic, wondering what he’ll do if Liam doesn’t let go of his hand, but it’s only a seconds long struggle before Liam is backing away.

Liam scoffs, scrubbing a hand over his face then running it through his hair. He turns his back to Zayn, putting his hands on his hips and dropping his head. Zayn watches him for a few moments, heart pounding in his chest, as Liam gets together in his head whatever he’s about to say.

“Just tell me what you want Zayn,” he says, still facing away from Zayn and head bowed. “Do you want to leave, is that it?” Liam scoffs again, and he’s shaking his head in disbelief when he turns back around. “Do you really want me to book you a flight home, so you can be miserable by yourself on a plane for thirteen hours?” His voice gets louder, both of them forgetting for a moment about Niall and Harry who are milling about somewhere just a room away.

“Just tell me what you want,” Liam says again, voice quieter and imploring, eyes soft as his bottom lip trembles. He bites it, and sniffs before rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it, okay? But you have to fucking  _ tell me _ , because I’m so fucking lost here, Zayn. I don’t know what you want from me, and I just -”

Liam takes a few stilted steps towards Zayn, and his hands are up like he’s approaching a startled baby animal. He looks like he wants to touch Zayn again, but thinks better of it. Zayn thinks he looks sad like this. Sad and confused and frustrated.

But Zayn’s sad too. The only difference between their sadness is that regardless of everything some part of Zayn will always be torn up inside that Liam is upset, while Zayn doesn’t even think Liam knows that he’s the main reason Zayn doesn’t even feel like a whole person some days. He’s just a hodgepodge of spackle and duct tape, being held together by Liam’s desire to one day make a real boy out of him.

“I just want to make us work,” Liam whispers. “Please. I don’t want to lose you. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Just tell me.” Liam’s eyes are still misty, red and puffy like he’s been rubbing at them. Zayn can’t remember the last time Liam cried in front of him. He briefly considers telling Liam that’s what he wants.

“I want to take a nap. Alone.” He says instead, looking into Liam’s eyes and using the assertive voice that Eve had made him practice in her office, no matter how embarrassed it’d made him feel.

That’s what Zayn wants. To have five moments of peace away from Liam and his sadness.

Liam nods, casting his eyes down at his feet dejectedly, looking the part of the rejected fiance.  _ Ex-fiance _ , Zayn detachedly corrects in his head. Liam walks over to the door, but Zayn determinedly doesn’t turn to watch him leave.

“I can sleep on the floor, if that’d be better for you. I want to share a bed with you, Zayn. I want to be  _ here _ with you. But if that’s not what you want, then…” Liam lets his sentence trail off, and Zayn keeps his eyes trained on the bay window that displays a wide open view of the beach. Zayn’s fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that his fingers have started to go numb.

The door creaks open then closes again as Liam leaves, and Zayn tries to take a deep breath to let go of at least some of the tension that’s bunched up inside of him. It’s almost 30C outside, but he feels chilled from the inside out. Like there’s a frost burrowed under his skin, with ice leeching into his veins and freezing his blood.

Zayn shuffles over to the bed and sits down, staring at the closed door. He takes another deep breath, then crawls further into the bed to lay down, and closes his eyes.

He imagines he’s floating on a balloon. The sun is hot, and he’s sweating, skin starting to feel raw under the rays of the sun, but it’s a beautiful day. He tries to pay no mind to the growing distance between him and the water below. He’s not falling.

3.

Zayn scratches at the back of his neck, tugging at the tag stitched into his collar and wishing he’d cut it out. Niall is showing off his golf clubs to Harry and rattling off some golf jargon while Harry nods along seriously. Zayn has long since given up on trying to follow the conversation.

They landed less than three hours ago, but Niall and Harry had somehow managed to snag someone’s cancelled tee time, so here they are. Niall had invited Liam too, but one look at Zayn’s face and he’d begged off, stuttering out an excuse about a shower and lunch.

Niall had gotten Zayn a club set for Christmas, right after they’d finalized their plans. He’d seemed so excited, rattling off facts and stats and explanations of what each club and putter was for over FaceTime. 

Niall’s enthusiasm was like a contact high, and Zayn didn’t have to feign interest when he was “oohing” and “ahhing” as Niall explained all the different benefits of the clubs. Zayn had been excited, too, at the idea of being included. 

But now, watching Harry and Niall gesture around the course as they plan and coordinate while Zayn stands off to the side silently, he feels like an outsider. A voyeur, invading on the quality time of two people who actually enjoy each other's’ company. 

Zayn looks down as his feet, kicking absently at a tuft of greenery sticking out. His cleats feel too tight on his feet, but he tries not to let it show. He shakes his foot out, and tries to tune back into the conversation.

“I figure we’ll just play through, see how we like the course, so we can get situated for our tee time on Tuesday. Sound good?” Niall rattles off his golf itinerary, looking between Zayn and Harry for confirmation. Zayn nods, content to go along with their plans, and startles when Harry drops a long arm around his shoulder and drags him to the waiting golf cart. 

Harry chatters away, as they drive to the first hole, assuring him he’ll do fine, telling him how fun it’ll be, to not worry about competition or winning or losing. It’s a nice sentiment, Zayn thinks, as they pull up to hole one, and he appreciates the gesture. 

Zayn is terrible, of course. His stance and shots and general shittiness are the source of much laughter throughout the day, and he’s having almost enough fun to make him forget how hot and sweaty he is, and still jetlagged, and how much his feet hurt.

Almost, but not quite.

They’re halfway through the fifth hole, and Zayn feels… nostalgic. There’s a comfort and ease with Harry and Niall, even after everything, that can only be achieved by the shared experiences they’ve had with each other. The inside jokes and the brotherly ribbing, it still comes natural to them. Zayn may be a shitty golfer, but there’s not much else on his mind besides having fun with his best mates, laughing and drinking a few beers and catching up after the winter holiday. 

And then the other shoe drops.

He should have been expecting it, really. Niall and Harry, especially Harry, aren’t exactly known for beating around the bush and it’s at the end of hole six, as they’re all trying to track down Zayn’s ball, when Harry drops all pretenses.

“I’m glad you and Liam could make it,” Harry starts, with all the subtlety of a hammer smashing through antique glassware, then continuing with, “You know, what with all the…” He waves his hand around in a vague motion that’s supposed to mean something, but Zayn has no idea what.

“Harry,” Niall says, with a warning in his voice, and Zayn’s stomach drops. There’s not much worse than knowing someone’s had a whole conversation about you behind your back, and are now trying to continue it without tipping you off.

“Um, yeah,” Zayn croaks out. His throat suddenly feels dry, and he tips his head back to squint up at the sun that’s starting to bear down even harder. “We were both really happy that we could get a trip together with you lads. It’s gonna be sick.”

He hopes that they’ll leave it there, but Zayn doesn’t consider himself particularly lucky in any of the ways that matter, so of course Harry continues on. 

“We were just wondering, you know,” Harry says, winding up his questions like a golf club aimed for Zayn’s skull, “Where your ring might be?” The bluntness of it all has Zayn considering what would happen if he just ran in the opposite direction as fast as he could, to any place that would take him as far away as possible from this conversation.

He wouldn’t make it very far, probably. Would most likely pass out from heatstroke halfway to the hotel. But it doesn’t stop him from considering it.

Zayn clears his throat and peers up at the sun again, then rubs at the warm skin on the back of his neck. When he brings his eyes back down to earth Niall is whispering furiously in Harry’s ear. He delivers a sharp punch to to Harry’s arm, and Zayn just watches them talk about him. 

While he’s standing right there.

Harry looks unapologetic, jaw cocked and eyes rolled up to the sky not unlike Zayn’s just were, except Zayn does it because he doesn’t want Harry to know how guilty he feels, and Harry does it because he doesn’t want Zayn to know how completely unguilty he feels.

Zayn can hear his blood rushing in his ears, can feel his cheeks heating up for reasons other than the unrelenting sun. Just that quickly he’s over the whole outing. He wants to go sit down in a dark room for a while, and only come back out after Harry’s gotten bored of trying to pick his brain.

“I’m starting to feel poorly,” Zayn says, steps stuttered as he walks backwards to the golf cart, thumb jutted out to indicate he’s going to pack up his clubs. “Think I’ll go back to the villa and have a kip. Sun’s kickin’ my arse, and the jetlag is finally hitting.”

“C’mon, Zayn,” Niall sighs, putting his hand on Zayn’s shoulder to stop him. “Harry’s a fucking idiot who can’t keep his sodding mouth shut,” Niall’s eyes cut angrily to Harry, a scowl on his face, but then he’s back to Zayn. “But he didn’t mean anything by it. Just ignore him, and let’s play through, yeah? Harry’s sorry.”

Harry’s looking off into the distance, lips pursed, and Niall punches him again in the same spot. Harry flinches, a scandalized look on his face when he turns to Niall, then sighs.

“Yes, Harry’s sorry,” he grumbles, rubbing tenderly at his arm. “I won’t bring up your commitment issues during golf anymore. Can we stop hitting me now?”

“I don’t think you have any place to talk about ‘commitment issues’,” Niall scoffs, shoving at Harry’s back, “Mr. ‘I’ve never been in love’.” Niall keeps pushing him forward as they walk deeper behind the course in search of Zayn’s ball.

“Speaking of commitment,” Zayn says, voice trembling only slightly as he employs a ‘pretend it never happened’ tactic in regards to the last five minutes, “How is Actress #17 doing? You saw here more than three times, that’s practically marriage for you.”

Niall’s cackle is loud and relieved as he slaps at Harry’s already sore arm then swings his own arm around Zayn’s neck. The moment has passed, and Harry’s smile is only the slightest bit indignant when he primly tells Zayn that he and Clara have decided to part ways. 

The sick feeling in Zayn’s stomach doesn’t go away, though. Knowing that they think the reason he isn’t wearing his ring is because he doesn’t want to broadcast the engagement - the knowledge sits in his belly heavy and cold.

Zayn almost wishes it was that simple. That he was just a prick with commitment issues. It’d probably be easier than whatever the fuck he’s going through now.

They finally find Zayn’s ball and finish out the hole, and when they get back to the cart Zayn flops heavily into his seat. They’ve got a cooler in the back full of drinks, and Zayn guzzles one down while Harry and Niall chatter away.

Zayn rubs at the back of his neck again, itching at the skin and wincing when it burns. He wonders if he should have put sunscreen there. Niall says it’s a bit of a drive to the next hole, and he debates with Harry over the map about which route to take.

Zayn leans back in his seat, and closes his eyes.

He’s floating, and his skin is is red and hot to the touch. The sun is higher in the sky than before. He’s starting to feel dizzy from the height, and he can barely see the water now. He starts feeling nervous, stomach in knots, and he wonders how he’ll ever get down. But at least he’s not falling.

4.

Zayn is lying in his bed, the last dregs of a dream he can’t remember seeping out of his head, and the invisible stain of dread clinging to his thoughts. When he, Niall, and Harry got back to the villa he’d told them that he was going to try and sleep off the jetlag. Which, in all fairness, wasn’t technically a lie. But given the choice between hitting the pool with them and Liam versus doing absolutely anything but that, he would choose a nap every time. 

It was a fitful sleep though, uneasy and interrupted and not very productive. The stress had followed him even into unconsciousness, leaving him with only the vaguest hints of lingering anxiety after he woke up. Laying in bed with the beginnings of a headache dancing behind his eyes, part of Zayn was starting to believe that this whole thing was an unsalvageable mistake. 

He stayed like that for a while, blackout curtains drawn seamlessly together to hide out from the sun still pulsing brightly outside, and the ridiculously high thread count sheets pulled over his head. Zayn’s considering how long he can hide out in his room before it becomes obvious that he’s hiding, when there’s a knock on his door.

Well, less of a knock an more of a repeated slapping against the wood, followed by a high-pitched scream that Zayn would not at all embarrassed to admit makes him throw back the covers, jump out of bed, and run to the door. He crouches down and raps at the door with his knuckles, and is rewarded with more slapping sounds and another scream that has Zayn wheezing out a laugh. 

“Who’s that, Fred? Is that Zayner in there? What’s he doin’ in there? Tell him to get out here.” Louis’s voice is muffled through the door, but Zayn can hear Freddie’s excited “Out!” clear as day.

Zayn, still on his knees, opens the door slowly in case Freddie’s leaning against it, and peeks his head out. Freddie almost seems taller than Zayn remembers, even though it’s only been a few weeks since they’ve last seen each other. His little blond head barrels through the crack in the door, his excited shrieks encouraged by Louis.

Zayn scoots back so that Freddie can teeter after him and into the room, and waves at the littlest of lads. He gladly accepts a hug from Freddie, who’s still got his PJ’s on. He’s probably just woken up from a nap as well, and Zayn can see that his cheeks are still ruddy from sleep.

Freddie pats at Zayn’s head confusedly, then turns back to his Dad, babytalk questions babbling out as he tries to enquire about Zayn’s recent cut and dye job.

“I told you he’d hate it,” Louis says, smirking as he drops his and Freddie’s suitcases haphazardly in Zayn’s doorway. Something bright and warm fills up inside Zayn’s chest at the thought of them coming to greet Zayn before even stopping into their own room just across the way.

“Nah, he loves it,” Zayn retorts, bending his head down so Freddie can rub at his head of golden peach fuzz. Freddie lets out a low murmur of awe, and there’s nothing like the fascination of a toddler to validate your hair choices.

“Are you trying to tell me you take fashion advice from a baby?” Louis crouches down next to Zayn, opening his arms wide in invitation when Freddie looks over at him, then scoffing when Freddie chooses instead to clamber into Zayn’s lap.

Zayn cuts his eyes at Louis’ extremely overpriced Vetements hoodie and trackies, and doesn’t even bother with a response. Louis must see the reaction on his face because he sucks his teeth, leaning back on his hands to watch Freddie rest his head on Zayn’s chest and pick at a loose thread in Zayn’s t-shirt.

Everything feels so normal like this, huddled together on the floor, and some of the tension in Zayn’s brain melts away. All the frenetic energy that was in his head dissipated with the first pat of Freddie’s tiny hand on his door.

“When did you guys get in,” Zayn asks, putting a forearm under Freddie’s bum and holding him. Freddie’s excitement from just moments ago has already dulled down into a sleepy desire to cuddle, and Zayn is quick to oblige. 

“Just now,” Louis answers, reaching over to hand Freddie his dummy, then brushes a few blonde hairs off his forehead. “He flipped out when I reminded him you were here, so I figured we’d pop in for a mo’ before we head out.”

“You guys goin’ somewhere?” Zayn asks, and he can’t help the disappointment that tinges his voice. Freddie’s just had his first birthday, but now that he’s bundled in Zayn’s arms he seems so small again, with his chubby fists holding onto Zayn’s shirt as he dozes off, and his blonde lashes fluttering as he tries to stay awake.

Zayn presses a kiss into the side of Freddie’s head where his hair is softest and he smells like baby lotion, and Zayn feels Louis’s hand press to the back of his neck. The skin there is still tender, but Louis’s palm is cool and dry, and Zayn wishes they didn’t have to go anywhere. He’d be perfectly fine if they could sit on the floor and nap the day away.

“What’s got you so mopey?” Louis’s voice is soft and questioning, and Zayn relaxes further under the steadiness of his hand. When Zayn doesn’t say anything, Louis pulls him in until they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip, and Louis tosses an arm around his neck.

“Just tired,” Zayn sighs, feeling his own head droop against Louis’s shoulder not unlike Freddie’s is drooped against Zayn’s. “Tired of being tired,” he mumbles, rubbing his hand up and down Freddie’s back to the tempo of the toddler’s slow, deep breaths. 

Louis lets the quiet drag on for a few, undisturbed moments, and Zayn thinks again that he’d like to stay here forever.

“You know I’ve got to ask, Zayn.” Louis’ nudges Zayn until he’s sitting up with a sigh, then turns so they’re facing each other. Louis places his hands on Zayn’s knees, a habit he formed when they used to get high together, ‘to make sure Zayn didn’t float away’. 

“I don’t know anything,” Zayn says, and he means it. He has no idea about anything, doesn’t know what he’s doing or thinking or what he wants, doesn’t have any answers to any of the questions that matter - he is completely bereft of all the things people want him to know.

“You  _ do _ know,” Louis replies, with a frown on his face that means he thinks Zayn’s taking the piss, but doesn’t understand why. He glances down at Zayn’s hands cradling Freddie, and Zayn can feel Louis’s eyes zooming in on his ringless ring finger, before he looks back up. It’s as serious as Zayn’s ever seen him look, mouth turned down and forehead wrinkled. “You know.”

“Louis,” Zayn starts, a placation on the tip of his tongue, but he barely gets the name out before Louis’s cutting him off.

“Don’t Louis me.” There’s agitation in his voice now. The knowledge that there’s something Zayn’s not telling him is riling him up, and a flush is quickly rising to his cheeks. “You think I don’t notice Liam’s bags aren’t in here? You think I’m stupid?”

“No, Louis, I just -” Zayn doesn’t know what to say, except that this is everything he didn’t want. The anger and the disappointment and the “I knew it”s. 

“You just  _ what _ ?” The hysteria in Louis’s voice startles them, and they both become acutely aware of the baby napping between them. “What is it, Zayn?” Louis’s voice is a harsh whisper now, jagged against the peaceful silence they’d enjoyed just moments before. “Tell me, for Christ’s sake.”

Zayn thinks, for a moment, that he  _ could _ just tell the truth. Tell Louis everything, about the failed engagement, about how he hasn’t slept in the same bed as Liam in close to three months. About how the week he spent at Louis’s house wasn’t just to “catch up” or to celebrate Freddie’s birthday, but was actually Zayn not even wanting to be in his own goddamn home when Liam was there, because Zayn couldn’t stand his hopeful looks and the constant pressure of reconciliation.

But then Zayn takes in the sad resignation on Louis’s face, the downward curve of his lips and the watery blue of his eyes, and something deep inside Zayn’s chest hurts. Back in the parts that are reserved for Louis, the place where a bit of him resides inside of Zayn, where he currently feels like he’s being cracked open to the core and leaking all over the hardwood.

“I didn’t wanna make you worry,” Zayn whispers. 

“Bit late for that, I think.” Louis tugs at a loose string in Zayn’s jeans, voice low again, and he won’t meet Zayn’s eyes. 

Zayn tries to conjure up anything that would make him sound less needy, less pathetic and helpless, but he can tell by the sympathy in Louis’s face there’s no chance of it.

“Sorry about the whole… yelling thing,” Louis continues, “Just don’t much like the idea of you sittin’ alone in the dark, I guess.”

“Nah, now I’ve got Baby Tommo. And you.” Louis looks up at him, sad and present and more honest in the past five minutes than Zayn’s been in a year, and Zayn wishes he knew himself as much as Louis knows him. “Who needs a fiance when I’ve got you two?”

As soon Zayn says it, he wants to take it back. Not because he doesn’t mean it, but because of the way Louis’s face falls, because of the way he whispers Zayn’s name all soft and hurt. Because of the nights he spent huddled against Louis, talking about how badly he wanted everything to work out.

Because of how obvious it should’ve been, because of how obvious it  _ is _ , to everyone except Zayn and Liam, that it was never going to fucking work out.

He doesn’t want to cry when he’s holding Freddie. Something about that seems wrong, even more wrong than all of Zayn’s other wrong parts. But it doesn’t stop the hitch in his breath and the burning behind his eyes, and it doesn’t stop the crater in his chest from cracking open just a bit wider.

Freddie chooses this moment to startle awake, rubbing at his eyes with one hand and reaching for Louis with the other. Zayn passes him over, and his fussing quiets down. Zayn watches Louis stand to leave, and a feeling of loss washes over him. The idea of losing Louis, in the midst of everything else, seems utterly agonizing, and Zayn stands up too in a panic.

“Louis -”

“Zayn -”

They start at the same time, and Louis stutters forward toward Zayn. He pulls Zayn in with his free arm, tight around the neck with their cheeks pressed together. Like they used to back when Zayn would tell Louis how fucking afraid he was of being left behind. Back when Louis was the only one who understood what it was like to have doubts in your head louder than confidence could ever be. Someone who never trivialized how sometimes it was exhausting just to exist.

“I’m not going anywhere, alright?” Louis whispers into Zayn’s ear, and Louis’s never lied to him, not about the shit that matters, and that place in his chest, the gaping Liam-sized hole that he walks around with, fills up with a not insignificant amount of Louis-shaped relief. 

Zayn nods, feeling more fragile than he thinks he has the right to be, and wipes discreetly at his eyes as Freddie whines next to them. Zayn rubs his wispy blonde head, smiling when the boy bats his hand away, then does the same to Louis just to see the familiar smile on his face.

“Let’s go get this one some food,” Louis says, gesturing to Freddie, who doesn’t seem likely to head back to sleep again, “And find some proper lad activities. Lad-tivities, if you will.”

Zayn likes the sound of that, of sticking by Louis and Freddie and soaking up the comfort he gets in their presence. Zayn grabs the bags Louis dropped on the floor, and they head out of Zayn’s room together.

But peace can only exist around Zayn for so long, so just as they’re exiting Zayn’s room Niall comes bursting into the common area of the villa, laughing and smiling, with Liam not far behind. 

Even with Louis here, Zayn still wants to duck in a corner and pretend he never saw them walk in. As it is, they make a beeline for him, Louis, and Freddie, and Zayn is stuck in place like a deer in headlights.

“Louis! When’d you get here?” Niall reaches out to give him a one-armed hug, then tickles under Freddie’s chin. Behind him Liam nods at them both, but apparently not even Louis’s arrival is enough to stop him from honing in on zayn.

“Not too long ago… What are you lot up to?” Louis’s eyes dart between Niall and Liam, careful with his words in a way Zayn doesn’t often see from him, and Zayn again regrets that they’re all tiptoeing around each other because of his and Liam’s fuckup of a relationship.

“Yeah, we’re gonna walk down to the pub and drink overpriced liquor.” The flush in Niall’s cheeks leads Zayn to believe he’s already had a go of some overpriced drinks. “Harry ran into someone he knows, fuck knows how, and they’re headed there now. You want in?”

“Yeah, I’m sure Louis has plans with Freddie, let’s get some bevs like old times.” Liam smiles, gesturing to the door for them to head out.

“Um,” Zayn says, looking at Liam as Niall steps off to the side of the room to answer a phone call, “We were gonna find Freddie somethin’ to eat, maybe -” but he’s cut off before he can finish.

“You should come to dinner with us! It’s not like Louis needs you to supervise Freddie’s bottle.” 

Zayn can feel heat rising to his face, embarrassment and self-doubt melding together in a heady mix of insecurity. The familiar feeling of imposition, of being a burden, of intruding on places he’s not welcome and doesn’t belong. 

“Actually,” Louis cuts in, startling Zayn with a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and stepping forward until Louis’s standing just in front of Zayn, “We were gonna show Fred the pool. Sorry lads,” he calls over to Niall, who’s placing his phone back in his pocket and rejoining the conversation. “Freddie’s gonna teach Zayn to doggy paddle.”

Niall nods, accepting Louis’s answer and looking ready to head out. But Zayn watches the way Liam’s smile falters, the way his eyes narrow when they dart between Zayn and Louis, can see gears turning in his head. Liam wants to say something more, wants to push more, but he won’t. Not with Niall practically pulling him out the door, and Louis with his mega-watt smile and tense shoulders standing between them.

It’s quiet again after Niall and Liam leave, with only Freddie’s excited babbles as they dress him in his swim trunks to interrupt the silence. There’s an awkward sense of relief in Zayn as he pulls on his own trunks, and he can’t even begin to consider what he would have done if Louis hadn’t been there.

“Thanks,” Zayn says, packing Freddie’s diaper bag with all the stuff Louis had scattered across the bed. He doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t want to make Louis feel obligated to put himself in between Zayn and Liam’s mess. But it’d felt so good, Louis having his back and being on his side. Zayn knows how self-centered that is, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting it.

“Don’t sweat it,” Louis shrugs, passing Freddie over to Zayn and grabbing Freddie’s diaper bag. Louis bumps their shoulders together, jostling Zayn until he wheezes out a chuckle. “That’s what partners in crime are for, yeah?” 

When Louis smiles it’s slightly off. It’s real and genuine but…  _ off _ , and Zayn feels another pang of guilt. But Louis pushes him out of the door, then throws an arm around Zayn’s shoulder as they walk, and Zayn tries his best to let it go.

Later, when they’re sitting in the wading area of the hotel pool watching Freddie scream and splash, Zayn can feel Louis’s eyes on him. Watching, quietly and carefully, a million questions trapped on his tongue, and a million more trapped in his head. 

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Louis winds up a plastic paddle boat, probably one of Freddie’s bath toys, and sends it off in Freddie’s direction. They’d just had an early dinner in the hotel’s cabana, and watching Freddie demolish his way through a veggie bowl and a fruit parfait for dessert had brought some levity back into the air.

“Yeah.” Zayn looks over to find Louis already staring, eyes intense and brow furrowed. Zayn reaches his hand over to smooth out the wrinkles there, and completely wetting Louis’s face in the process. He laughs when Louis pushes his hand away, squawking indignantly.

“Good. Just making sure, you ingrate.” Louis splashes him, ss much as he can in the ten or so centimeters of water they’re sitting in, and Freddie waddles over to join in, giggling and screaming as he stomps around in the water.

They leave it at that for now. Louis is always persistent when he wants things, often resorting to needling someone until they’re forced to spill whatever they’re hiding just to get Louis to shut up. But not now. Not with Zayn. Not when Louis’s starting to see the water leaking out him because Zayn’s not able to patch the cracks fast enough anymore.

But soon. That’s a given. Zayn can tell by the way Louis’s eyes eyes rove over him whenever Louis thinks Zayn isn’t looking. Like he’s making sure Zayn hasn’t floated away. Some part of Zayn, a part he doesn’t even feel prepared to acknowledge, wonders if it’s selfish to like the idea of Louis checking to see if Zayn’s feet are still on the ground. If maybe it’s greed that has him craving a safe place to land when he’s ready to come back down.

Watching Freddie splash around takes his mind off things, but not completely. He feels wistful, like he’s on the edge of something or somewhere that was left behind, something close enough to see but too far to touch.

He’s floating on a balloon, higher and higher towards the sun. He’s burnt at the edges, and the heat singes his lungs when he breathes. He stares down at the water below, looking chilly and ominous and so far away, and wonders what it’s like down there. He wonders if it hurts to fall.

5.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

They’re laying on Zayn’s bed, an old Power Rangers movie playing silently on the telly while Freddie sleeps between them, finally down the night. Louis asks apropos of nothing and everything, subdued and confused, with questions that Zayn doesn’t have the answers to.

“Dunno,” Zayn murmurs, then hums low in his throat, scratching at his stubble and hunching his shoulders in what could halfway pass for a shrug. “Embarrassed, I guess. Felt easier to just try to hide it, and either it’d work out or it wouldn’t, but at least I’d know, like, where my head was.”

“And do you?” Louis turns on his side so he’s facing Zayn, and Zayn mirrors him so they’re looking at each other. “Do you know… where your head’s at?”

“Not really,” Zayn says lightly. He wants to put on a brave face, to try and pull a lesson or something useful from these past few shitty months. But he’s also never been required to be brave around Louis. Not when it’s just them in the dark.

Zayn is content with the knowledge that with Louis there doesn’t always have to be a deeper meaning. He’s not being graded on his responses, and everything he says isn’t being stored for use against him later. They’re just… talking. It’s nice. Zayn doesn’t get to “just talk” to people anymore. 

“You know you can stay with us. Not like, you have to, but if you need like, a place to stay or summat.” Louis’s toying with a loose string on Zayn’s pillow, and even with only the dim screen of the tv to light the room Zayn can see the faint flush riding high on his scruffy cheeks. “Open invitation and all that.”

“Yeah,” Zayn replies, not bothering to disguise the fondness in his voice. “I know.”

Louis looks soft like this, tentative and hesitant and showing all the parts of Louis that the public doesn’t always see, the parts that Zayn has always felt very privileged to be let in on. It’s safe, comforting and familiar, like feeling solid ground under his feet and knowing without a doubt where he stands.

“What’re you thinking about?” Louis brings his hand up from Zayn’s pillow to poke at Zayn’s cheek until Zayn’s laughing and swatting him away.

“Honestly?” Zayn hasn’t had much use for the truth lately. He hasn’t quite figured out what his own truths are, and he finds that when he does, most people around him don’t like it. But Louis has never been “most people”.

“Yeah, honestly.” Louis’s eyes are bright and expectant, even in the dark of the room, and Zayn wants to know what Louis sees in Zayn. What it is that makes him believe Zayn is interesting and worthy of attention.

“I like the way you look at me.” Zayn blurts it out. Louis brow furrows in confusion, so Zayn continues. “Like, I dunno, like I’m a real person.”

Louis eyebrows rise up, and he blinks a few times like he’s trying to process what Zayn’s saying. But he doesn’t look any closer to understanding, so Zayn tries again.

“You look at me like…” Zayn sighs, eyes rolling up into his head as he tries to find the words. “You look at me like I’m good.” The flush rushes back into Louis’s cheeks, and Zayn watches his mouth work open and closed like words are escaping them. 

“I don’t look - I mean I  _ do _ , cause you  _ are _ , but I don’t -” Louis huffs, rubbing a hand over his face and, Zayn smiles.

“Hey,” he reaches over, dragging Louis’s hand away from his face, “Thanks.” Zayn links their fingers together, watching the way Louis’s eyes flit over their joined hands. Louis’s thumb rubs over the knuckle of Zayn’s finger, and his entire brain centers on the methodical up and down.

And then there’s a knock at the door.

Followed by what is very distinctly Liam’s voice, asking if he can come in. Zayn’s head turns to the door on instinct, and Zayn feels his own pulse ratchet up as he hears Louis take a sharp breath beside him.

Zayn turns back, glancing down at Freddie sleeping peacefully next to him, and slips his hand from Louis’s. Louis makes a noise in protest, but Zayn just ducks his head and makes to get out of the bed. Liam knocks again, this time asking if Zayn’s awake, and Louis’s hand grabs Zayn’s arm as soon as his feet touch the floor.

“Don’t go,” Louis pleads, grip tight on Zayn’s bicep, “I’ll tell him to fuck off. We can just finish the movie, you don’t have to go.” It’s not quite desperation that’s in his voice, but it’s close enough.

“I’ll just - I’ll be right back, okay?” Zayn pats Louis’s hand until he lets go, though Louis looks reluctant to do so. “When I get back we’ll finish the movie, yeah?” Louis nods, and watches silently as Zayn slips out of the bed.

Zayn makes his way over to the door. Before he opens it he turns back to Louis, sees resignation on his face. Zayn tries to give him a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t seem to work. Louis sits up, and Zayn can feel the stare on the back of his neck when he turns to the door.

Liam knocks again before Zayn can open the door, and it makes Zayn jump. The knock alone is foreboding, like judgement day and getting called to the head teacher’s office all rolled into one hyper-critical ex.

Zayn cracks the door open, trying to block Liam’s view into the room. He must not be quick enough, because Zayn can see Liam’s eyes drift, and how his body leans as he tries to see past Zayn and into the room.

“We’re watching a movie with Freddie,” Zayn says, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind himself. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to explain himself, but he also refuses to feel like he’s done something wrong.

“Louis didn’t seem too happy to see me,” Liam jokes, aiming for levity that falls visibly flat.

“Yeah, well.” Zayn shrugs feeling bereft as he stands in front of Liam. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he wraps his arms around himself. Zayn’s sure the chill he feels in the air is entirely in his mind, but it doesn’t stop him from shivering a bit.

“Harry and Niall went to a party at a villa down the road.” Liam says. Zayn nods, not knowing what else to say. The silence opens up wider between them, and the awkwardness is palpable. Zayn really doesn’t want to prolong this, especially since Liam doesn’t seem to have shit to say.

“Louis really wants to finish the movie, so -” Zayn starts back towards the door, but Liam cuts him off with a harsh laugh and a shake of his head that has Zayn’s hackles rising.

“Didn’t know I needed to scheduled time with Louis to talk to my fiance, though it does seem like you’ve only had time for him since he got here.” Liam’s tone is accusatory, biting and spiteful in a way that he often tries to pretend he isn’t.

“You’re not my -” Zayn starts, but frustration wells up in him, and he balls his fists and takes a deep breath for continuing. “You’re not my fiance. And don’t talk shit like I’m neglecting you or summat.”

“So what then, Zayn? I’m not you’re fiance, and I’m not worthy of your time, so what am I then?”

“I don’t know!” Hysteria is starting to creep into Zayn’s voice, like it always does when he talks to Liam. “I don’t know what we are, and you won’t let me figure it out, and I  _ don’t know _ .”

Liam sighs, shaking his head again as he runs a hand nervously through his hair. He turns away from Zayn for a second, like he has to compose himself in the face of Zayn’s belligerency, and then turns back.

“I didn’t ask you out here to fight.” Liam’s doing his ‘Zayn is upset’ voice now. Zayn  _ hates _ that voice.

“Then what  _ did  _ you ask me out here for?” Zayn hates that Liam makes him feel volatile, like a firecracker with half the fuse cut off, and Liam’s idea of helping is getting trigger-happy with a lighter.

“I fucking miss you! I’m standing here, trying to make this work, and it’s like you don’t care at all! Like you don’t care about  _ me  _ at all!”

“Don’t fuckng make this about me! I didn’t ask you to try and win me back, I didn’t ask for anything from you except to be left alone.”

“I’ve left you alone for months! How are we supposed to work through this if we don’t talk?”

“I don’t  _ want _ to work through it!” Zayn watches Liam recoil, but he forces himself to keep going. “I don’t want to talk, I don’t want any of this.” Zayn waves his hand between them, signalling their argument. “I don’t want  _ this _ anymore. Can’t you see how fucking awful it is?”

“Awful? You think I’m awful?” Liam’s voice is small and hurt, and for a split second Zayn remembers that this is the man he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with.

“Liam -” 

“So that’s it then? You’re just done, after everything we’ve been through?” 

And just like that it’s gone. That one moment of remembering who they used to be, or rather who he thought they were, until he’s thrust right back into the present, and is faced with the reality of who they  _ are. _

“Stop putting this all on me!” A very aggrieved and very adamant part of Zayn refuses to let Liam make himself out to be the victim. Not when Zayn’s spent the better part of seven years being his Build-A-Boyfriend. “I told you I wanted - that I  _ needed _ a break, and you’re just always around, trying to -” 

“Trying to what? Trying to love you? Trying to save our relationship? Well I’m sorry, Zayn! I’m sorry for trying, and caring about our relationship, and wanting us to work. I’m sorry for  _ loving you too much.” _

“That’s just fucking it, Liam!” Zayn’s voice is louder than he intended, especially with Freddie sleeping one room away. But just like he knew would happen, now that he’s started saying it he can’t stop. “You think you try  _ more _ and care  _ more _ and love me  _ more _ , but you’re wrong! That’s not how relationships work! But you make sure to tell me, every second of every day, how hard it is to love me. How difficult it is to be in a relationship me. How much  _ work _ you put in to deal with me.”

“Because I do! Because I’m the one chasing you, I’m the one sitting around like a fucking dope, waiting for you to move past your goddamn crisis of the week and come back home! I’m the one waiting for you to finally love me back like I love you.”

Zayn stands stock still, and all the blood rushes from his head. It gives him whiplash, traversing from numbness and hurling into grief that has tears springing into his eyes faster than Zayn can blink them away.

“Did you  _ ever _ care about me at all?” Liam shakes his head in disbelief, and Zayn is sure in this moment that he’s standing in front of a stranger.

“All I ever did was love you. Too fucking much.” Zayn shudders in a breath, trying to ease some of the ache welling up in his chest. “And all you’ve ever done is make me wanna run away.” 

“Run straight into Louis’s fucking bed, more like.” 

As soon as the words are out, Zayn can see the regret on Liam’s face. Zayn can see that he wants to take it back, in the way that he stumbles towards Zayn with his hands out, doing damage control for his own corrosive fucking mouth.

“What?” Zayn backs up when Liam comes toward him, away from Liam’s guilt that does fuck all in the wake of the absolute anguish that he can’t seem to help from dropping into Zayn’s life.

“I didn’t - I didn’t mean it like that, just -”

“Is that  _ really _ what you think of me?” Zayn’s heart is his stomach and his head feels woozy. His lungs are too tight and there’s not enough air in the room, and it’s like the walls are closing in on him.

“Zayn, please.” Liam takes more steps forward, and the mere thought of Liam’s hands on his body makes his skin want to turn inside out.

“Don’t fucking touch me, stay the fuck away from me.” Zayn yanks his hand away when Liam gets close, holding it tight to his chest, as if the physical touch of Liam’s hand could burn him alive just like his words do.

“Zayn  _ please _ , I don’t want it to end like this, please, I’m sorry, just -” Liam’s eyes are watery and his face is pale, and Zayn thinks if he has to look at Liam for one second more he’ll be sick on the carpet.

Zayn turns his back to Liam, fumbling with the doorknob, but he can’t get his hands to work. His eyes are cloudy and his head is pounding, and if he could just get the fucking door to open, if he could just get inside the fucking room and away from Liam and his begging -

The knob turns on it’s own, through no help of Zayn’s, and Louis’s on the other side pulling him into the room with a quick hand before he and Liam both disappear behind the closing door.

When the door shuts behind Louis it’s silent again, except for the rush of blood in Zayn’s skull. The quiet lasts only a moment until Zayn hears shouting outside, but even that is brief and then it’s gone. There’s a thump on the wall, rattling Zayn’s heart in his chest until he’s doubling over and trying fruitlessly to pull any air into his lungs.

That’s how Louis finds him. Bent over, hands on his needs, choking in-between gasps of air and heavy sobs. Zayn hears murmuring, and doesn’t realize until Louis’s standing him up straight that it’s coming from his own mouth.

“I can’t do this, I can’t do it. I thought I could, but I can’t, I can’t.” Zayn’s head feels too heavy on shoulders, like his brain is waterlogged and dripping misery into every crook of his body. Even the dim light from the TV makes his head scream, and Zayn squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can. His chest hurts, somewhere deep and undefinable that’s probably only ever been the home of heartbreak.

Theres water everywhere. Soaking into his paper-thin skin and chilling his bones. ‘You’ve got a heart like a cold stone,’ Liam had said when Zayn left the band. Maybe that’s what’s making him sink so fast.

“Zayn, I don’t fucking know what to do, Jesus Christ, I don’t know -” Louis’s voice voice is loud in his ears, though it’s probably not any more than a whisper.

“I wanna go home, I don’t wanna be here, I just wanna go home.” Zayn doesn’t even know where home is. The LA house he shares with Liam? The London flat he shares with Liam? His own fucking heart that he shared with Liam? And look how far that got him.

“You’re not leaving alone, look at you, you’re a bloody mess.” Louis says, and Zayn can’t help but to agree.

“My entire fucking life is falling apart,” Zayn whispers. He can feel everything he ever wanted slipping through his fingers, melting unrecoverably into the carpet.

“Zayn -” There’s panic in Louis’s voice, but Zayn just wants someone to understand, wants to explain, really explain, how far to shit everything’s gone.

“He doesn’t want me, he doesn’t even know me! He’s only ever wanted this fake idea of me that’s never sad and thinks the sun shines out his fucking arse, and I can’t -” Zayn’s knees go weak, and Louis’s arms wrap around his middle, guiding Zayn over to the bed to sit down.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Zayn.” Louis’s hands are slippery on his face, rubbing at wet tear tracks that won't dry because they’re quickly replaced by new ones. 

Zayn feels horrible. This is exactly what he didn’t want. People seeing this, seeing the parts of Zayn that Liam has made very clear are not fit for public consumption.

“I can’t do it, I can’t do it,” Zayn repeats, head shaking back and forth and stomach roiling inside of him. Zayn’s not even sure what he means anymore, but all of it, really. The engagement, the pretending, putting up with the same shit that makes him feel like he’s breaking apart.

Louis looks lost when he stares at Zayn, and that somehow makes things worse. Zayn just wants to get away from everyone and everything. He tries to pull away from Louis, to stand up and leave and go anywhere that isn’t here. He attempts to push Louis’s hands away so he can escape, so he can hide away, but Louis doesn’t let go.

Louis pulls Zayn into his chest, until Zayn’s arms are coming up around Louis’s back, and Zayn’s pressing his wet face into Louis’s neck. Zayn groans as another sob rips its way out of his throat, clawing its way up from where Zayn’s hidden it for so long.

“I just wanted you to think we were okay, but we’re not okay, I’m not okay, nothing’s fucking okay.” Not even Zayn’s heart seems to be working correctly, beating at an out of tempo double time that leaves his chest panging in agony.

“We’ll figure it out. It’s fine. We’re gonna go, it’s fine.” Louis’s head nods quickly, like he’s just decided something in his head.

“What?” Zayn feels ten steps behind, drudging his way through the sludge and fog that’s mucking up his brain.

Louis pulls back, holding Zayn’s face so they’re looking into each other’s eyes. His thumbs brush at tears as they fall, and Zayn leans into Louis’s touch. Zayn’s face feels hot and tender under Louis’s hands, but Louis’s eyes are the only clear and distinct focal point in a sea of haziness.

“We’re gonna pack your shit, and we’re gonna get the fuck out of here, yeah?” Louis sounds like he knows what he’s doing, and Zayn so desperately wants to feel like that too, so he nods.

It’s a blur from there. Louis throws what little of their things had been unpacked back into suitcases, and pulls what amounts to a year’s worth of favors to get them an immediate flight out of New Zealand and back to LA. 

Louis almost undoes all of his re-packing trying to remember where he stored Freddie’s collapsible pram, until Zayn murmurs out the location. Zayn’s rewarded with a noise of triumph from Louis, who then comes over to check on him (again). Louis rubs at the skin under Zayn’s eyes, still tender to the touch and most definitely swollen, and presses a kiss into the top of Zayn’s head.

“Don’t make fun of me for that later,” Louis mumbles. Zayn thinks if he had the energy he’d smile, but as it is he just grabs Louis’s hand, and takes a moment’s comfort where he can get it.

When a bellhop comes with a trolley to take their luggage, knocking on the door to signal his arrival, Zayn’s doesn’t want to leave the room. The fear must be rolling off him in waves, because Louis stops frantically checking for anything he might have left behind, and grabs Zayn by the hand. 

“We’re going home, okay? It’s - I’m here, so just” He pulls Zayn in for a quick hug, then wipes a few more tears off Zayn’s face when he pulls back. “Just - I’m here, it’s gonna be okay.”

Zayn nods. He reminds himself that Louis’s never lied to him, not about the shit that matters, and follows behind him out of the room. Zayn’s eyes cut around, looking for any signs of Liam’s presence, but Zayn doesn’t notice anything besides a knocked over table and a light on in the room Harry claimed earlier.

Zayn allows himself to be led through the motions by Louis, pushing Freddie’s pram just to give his hands something to do, brain and body feeling numb.

When they’re finally loaded on a plane, either a few minutes or a few hours later, Zayn can’t tell, he feels completely drained. Like someone pulled open a stopper inside him, and he left all parts of himself that mattered in a puddle back at the villa.

Zayn leans his head against the airplane window. Its pitch black outside, and Zayn can’t see anything. He’s looking into nothingness, trying to make out anything discernible in the inkiness of the skyline, but he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be looking for.

His breath hitches in his chest, but a warm hand on his own startles him out of his reverie. Louis’ hand is familiar in his, tight and grounding even as they soar 9,000 meters above the ground.

Freddie sighs in his sleep, cheeks flushed with the excitement of whatever he’s dreaming about, and Zayn finds some modicum of happiness in Freddie’s peace. There’s an undeniable longing as Zayn looks on, but Zayn couldn’t possibly begin to guess what for.

It’s too dark now to see the ocean, but he imagines the steadiness of the water below and the soft roll of the waves. He pictures himself floating. Bobbing in the water, treading along with the turn of the tide. He’s floating.

+1

Zayn looks up at the cloudless blue sky, sun bright and intimidatingly yellow, and takes a deep breath. The air tastes of salt, a briny punchiness that only seawater can bring to mind. He feels mesmerized by the tossing waves, the repetition in the way they fold and roll.

But his attention can’t be captivated for too long, as farther down the beach he hears his name.

“Come on then, I haven’t got all day! The sea waits for no man, and neither does Freddie!” Louis looks ridiculous in his bright green polka dot swim shorts, which Zayn had specifically forbade him from ever wearing in public. It’s fully the reason why he’s wearing them now.

Zayn smiles, balancing the baskets of food he’d gotten from the vendor. Louis beckons him again, raising Freddie up in the air in his matching yellow polka dot swim shorts, as some sort of inventive to make Zayn hurry with the food. It works.

The sand is damp and gritty under his feet, and sometimes he stumbles when he walks. But it’s land. It’s solid ground. All he has to do is take one step, and then another, and then another.

He finds that each one is easier than the last.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a doozy! I started writing this about a year ago, and then life happened, and I decided that I wanted to finish it before school started this semester. The ending is very different from what I had originally planned. It's not tagged for a ship, mainly because of the ambiguity, and the suspense of it all. I'm not particular to reading it one way or the other. It's open-ended, and you can interpret it however you'd like! 
> 
> I've marked this fic as a sequel to [Counterpoint](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7988023) and it was written as such, but its not required to read that first. It's more of a spiritual sequel - a what if. If you REALLY wanted Counterpoint to end in a happy ending, you can pretend this is in an alternate ALTERNATE universe. I'm not picky (:
> 
> Special thanks to [Alex](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com) for putting up with my endless vague mentions of this fic over the past few weeks.
> 
> If you'd like to see the fic tag, you can view mood posts & inspo posts [_here_](http://blondebuzzcutzayn.tumblr.com/tagged/LLITS), or just stop by and say hello! I'm [@cryptidzayn](http://cryptidzayn.tumblr.com) currently on Tumblr.
> 
> That's about it. I couldn't remember what this needed to be tagged as, so let me know if there's anything I left out.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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